


The More Loving One

by Hornet394



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 13:50:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3770599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hornet394/pseuds/Hornet394
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred was like an addiction, drawing Arthur to him like a beautiful flame draws moths to its heat and passion.  He knew he couldn't fall in love with Alfred, but the boy was so good to him, and Alfred told Arthur that he loved him.  And Arthur believed him.</p>
<p>Or</p>
<p>The forbidden lust between Arthur and Alfred, and everything in between.</p>
<p>How should we like it were stars to burn<br/>With a passion for us we could not return?<br/>If equal affection cannot be,<br/>Let the more loving one be me. </p>
<p>-WH Auden, "The More Loving One"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The More Loving One

The first time Arthur Kirkland laid eyes on Alfred Jones, it was his third year of teaching high school literature.  He had already endured two years of teaching brats a half of his age - why would this year be different?

Alfred Jones.

He was such an interesting child, all muscle and fat but his face seemed so fragile and delicate, like it would have shattered with a slight marr to his perfection.  It intrigued Arthur.  He could make a thousand sonnets about the boy, could use a million words to describe him, yet none would be able to fully describe him.  For Alfred Jones was such a mysterious and curious enigma to him, one that should not have existed in his world.

The way he hung onto Arthur’s every word was also something else.  Literature was not a captivating subject to most, nor did Arthur make an effort to let it be perceived as one, most students could not escape for falling asleep once or twice in his lectures.  But Alfred Jones... no.  He reminded Arthur of himself when he was young, also as attentive and salivating for the emotion between the lines.

Alfred Jones cornered him once, after class, with the excuse of going over his thesis paper, but the two ended up sharing a cup of coffee at the nearby starbucks, in which Arthur talked about poems that were entirely out of the syllabus while Alfred listened, captivated by Arthur’s words and his dramatic gestures, passion that Arthur never exhibited in class.

It was apparent that the American loved his literature classes very much.  He never failed to show up, or be late, like so many of his peers were fond of doing.  He never turned to talk with the obnoxious German next to him.  Even Arthur hadn’t resist sneaking a sentence or two to the soft-spoken Canadian next to him in his school days.

The two continued to meet.  Sometimes in a coffee shop, sometimes in the library, sometimes just in the middle of the hallway.  Sometimes, when Arthur taught he would look at Alfred, and those bright blue eyes would be staring straight back at him.

The week where Alfred left on an exchange program to Canada, Arthur felt exceptionally bored.  None of his students showed such enthusiasm as Alfred did, and none of their papers were as messy and full of emotion as Alfred did.

So it was no coincidence, then, when Arthur invited Alfred to go to his apartment and have remedial lessons, found the American sprawled out at his couch, deeply asleep, entirely exhausted by the literature marathon Arthur had subjected Alfred to.  Arthur smiled at his student and put a blanket over him, before bidding good night and returning to his own room.

The next day found the American confessing his undying love for his teacher in the middle of Arthur’s pouring of tea, shocking the Brit into a stupor.  Then Alfred had fled, leaving his bomber jacket behind in his embarrassment.

The next time when Arthur saw Alfred, five minutes before school began, he tugged the American into a toilet lying in an abandoned corridor, slipping the jacket back onto his shoulders snugly, ignoring the blush splayed across the American’s cheekbones while fighting his own rising heat at the same time.

Alfred was nervous, but it could not be compared to Arthur’s own apprehension at what he did eventually.  The imprint of the American’s body and mouth and mind pressed onto Arthur’s, the younger man’s back shoved against the cold stone tiles.  It was messy, hard, and everything that had been Arthur’s youth came back to him that instance.  His hands wounded in his student’s wheat blonde tresses, feeling Alfred’s legs against his own.  

Arthur didn’t go beyond that, but it was enough to make their hearts pound as their breath mingled together.  To him, Alfred was sacred, and he deserved more than the school bathroom.  Arthur told him so.  Alfred?  He wanted more and to never let go.

Arthur preened under the American’s attention.

He hoped it could last forever.

 

_Looking up at the stars, I know quite well_

_That, for all they care, I can go to hell,_

_But on earth indifference is the least_

_We have to dread from man or beast._

 

Arthur’s neighbours started to familiarise themselves with Alfred.  They were glad that Arthur had found such a man who shared the same love for literature as he did.  The lewd Frenchman across the corridor hinted at something akin to the truth, earning himself another insult war with Arthur.  Alfred pulled the man away before things got too serious.

Mostly they did nothing but talk.  Talk about school, talk about the bullies, talk about food.  Alfred loved teasing Arthur, and Arthur was glad that someone knew so much about him.  He supposed this was love, having tea in the warm afternoon glow.

But sometimes Alfred would sidle along the older man, begging with those puppy blue eyes of his, and time would found the two of them tangled with each other on the couch, or on the bed, or on the floor, wild hands, wild eyes.

And finally, some time near the holidays Alfred wanted more, needed more.  Arthur could never resist those luminous blue eyes and fiery passion.

They pressed against each other, allowing themselves to be consumed, until what was left were two bodies mingled together, two fiery infernos alit with smoldering pleasure.  Alfred writhed beneath Arthur’s hands and Arthur’s body, and Arthur was mesmerized in those glazed eyes and small puffs of breath, and the tight heat that surrounded him, engulfed him, consumed him.

Arthur had slept with men and women alike in his rebellious youth and adulthood.  But none held him the way Alfred did, the taut muscles rippling beneath him and the smell of sweat and cologne, of a boy desperately wanting to be treated as a man.

 

_How should we like it were stars to burn_

_With a passion for us we could not return?_

_If equal affection cannot be,_

_Let the more loving one be me._

And then Alfred was addicted.  He was addicted to Arthur, like Arthur was some sort of nicotine or drug.  Alfred constantly begged for more, wanting to feel the older man forever.  Arthur wasn’t any better.  He craved the younger boy.  He wanted to cherish him, treasure him, hold him in his arms.  He wanted to love Alfred.

Arthur did everything he possibly could for the boy.  His love for Alfred was so consuming, it was like a furnace, a slow simmering passion that spread through Arthur’s mind and soul everytime he thought of Alfred and that hard, warm body pressing against his own.

“I love you.”  Alfred blurted out one sweltering afternoon.  Arthur simply smiled and brushed back the American’s damp hair, gazing into those loving blue eyes.  “I know.”  He answered simply.

Alfred smiled at him, one that took his breath away.

Then the rumours started.  It wasn’t hard for Arthur to overhear his students gossiping amongst themselves, especially nearing the holidays where the youngsters dropped their guard.  Jones’ having great sex, they say.  A pang of something hit his heart, but his smile was still on his face as the young ones walked by him.

“The only person I’m having sex with is you, Artie.” Alfred said every time something akin to uncertainty wormed its way into Arthur’s heart.  Arthur then, would know that Alfred loved him.  There was nothing to fear, in face of true love.

But like every cliche love story that Arthur loathed so much, a third party appeared.  He appeared in the form of Ivan Braginsky, Arthur’s teaching assistant.  He was a man full of smiles, his eyes squinted up into a line.  He reminded Arthur of an old flame, and he said so to Alfred.  “Should I be jealous, Art?”  the younger boy laughed, cradling Arthur’s head in his lap.

Then Alfred started to pay attention to the man, making fun of his Russian descent and pale hair at every turn.  Ivan complained to Arthur about Alfred.  “That’s just the way he is,” Arthur replied every time.  Ivan would huff angrily, and in time, seek his own retaliation on Alfred’s mockery.

Ivan wasn’t a bad boy, he wasn’t.  Often he followed Arthur around like an obedient puppy, absorbing everything Arthur told him.  He was flattered by the respect and admiration Ivan had for him, but Ivan would forever be only his assistant to him.  When Alfred appeared, though, Ivan just couldn’t help himself, leaving Arthur to watch on with impending doom.

Ivan and Alfred were like both sides of a magnet.  Push and pull, until they both fell.  For an adult such as Ivan, Arthur could only sigh upon how childish he was acting, just like Alfred.  

And childish he was.  

 

_Admirer as I think I am_

_Of stars that do not give a damn,_

_I cannot, now I see them, say_

_I missed one terribly all day._

 

Arthur supposed he should have seen it coming.  Antonio had warned him, before they parted on good terms, that Arthur tended to fall for the younger ones.  “They can’t love you the way you need to be loved,” Antonio had said.  Arthur dismissed it as Antonio’s own brand of jealousy.

Arthur had just been going back to his classroom for his lost pen, the one Alfred gave him for Christmas.  For such a meticulous person as he, he made the wrong decision to pass by that particular classroom, located in that particular corridor.  It’s late.  No one should be at school.

But he heard the very familiar whines, the breathless moans and the screams.  A deeper voice, lost in the throes of ecstasy.  Arthur clenched his fists.  That boy and his moans and his tight heat and his love, they were all Arthur’s.  Or so he thought.  He slammed open the door and the two froze in the middle of the act.

Fury glazed over Arthur.

The pale skin and toned muscles that had elicited him so now only served as a painful reminder of his own unattractiveness.  Ivan looked guilty, but only because he was caught having sex in school.  Ivan was so much better than Arthur in so many ways.  

Those blue eyes brimmed with unshed tears, growing wide with pleading.  “Artie, I swear I-” Alfred’s protests died upon Arthur’s ears, his own emerald orbs laced with anger and shame.  Shame on him to think that he could actually have a love story of his own.  

Even now, he craved to be able to touch the American, to have those bright blue eyes and that enthusiastic grin light up his day.  He had been so accustomed to the feeling of solitary, until Alfred F. Jones had whizzed into his life and invaded it, consumed it, until Arthur’s whole being was based solely on the existence of this boy.

He wanted to rush over and throw Ivan off, to show everyone that Alfred belonged to him.  But that wasn’t the case, was it?

Tears prickled Arthur’s eyelids and he turned away, fleeing back to his car and driving home, slamming hard on the pedal, the rubber asphalt burning into the road.

 

_Were all stars to disappear or die,_

_I should learn to look at an empty sky_

_And feel its total dark sublime,_

_Though this might take me a little time._

 

He met Antonio and his boyfriend in the Starbucks near school.  Lovino was a sullen, rude boy, but Antonio was besotted with him.  And as much that Lovino swore, he cared for Antonio, too.  Deep down.  Arthur just smiled at their antics, and wondered where he had gone wrong.  “I warned you, Arthur,” Antonio sighed.  “I supposed you did,” Arthur said, cradling his cup in his hands, “But he said he loved me.”  Antonio couldn’t say anything to that.

When the two left, Arthur watched as Antonio wrapped his arms around Lovino, stealing a kiss on his cheek, his smiling eyes crinkling up into a line.  Lovino flailed and blushed, but a small smile played on the edge of his lips.

The scalding hot liquid rolled down his throat.

Finishing his drink, Arthur made his way back to school, his book of poems tucked securely under his arms.  When he got to his classroom, most of the students were already there.  There was a big gaping seat between the German and the Dane, the emptiness nagging at the back of Arthur’s skull.

When the classroom emptied, Arthur slumped onto his desk.  The pen lay abandoned on the side, teetering on the brink of the edge.  Holding his head into his hands, he allowed the few tears to leak past his lashes.  Wiping away the weak tears, he slung his bag over his shoulder and walked out confidently, allowing the pen to drop onto the unyielding floor.

The ride back home was silent, the radio void of laughteror music, except for the lone drone of the host and his guest.  Arthur gripped the wheel tightly as he slowly drove back to his house.  Making his way from the garage back to his sanctuary, he faltered in his steps.  The door should open now, he should be rushing out energetically, giving Arthur a smothering kiss with promises of passion and love.

He slammed the door of his house and he slid down onto the floor, shirt and jacket crumpled and his jacket sleeve soaked as he cried into his own hands.

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was inspired by the More Loving One by W.H. Auden, as you might have noticed, scratch that, this is Auden’s tale. Auden was a teacher or something to that effect, he fell in love with his student, but the student didn’t love him back or I think broke up with him? Hence this poem. I’ll be generous and draw the dots for you. Arthur is essentially Auden and Alfred is, of course, the student. I always saw USUK (or UKUS, in this case) as a pairing that’s sweet and so romantic, but it’s not necessarily more canon-er (is that a word?) than FrUK, thus, it never really appeared to me as those pairings that can last forever. Well, occasionally they do, for example in teaandcharcoal or George Devalier’s stories, but not in mine. Well, FrUK is canon-y, and for a damn good reason that is. I acknowledge the fact that USUK is so damn cute (which I totes ship, by the way), it’s not easy to see them as you know, a couple. Arthur’s just too mature for Alfred, and I heightened it here just a bit with the age and knowledge difference. See, Art’s been through heartbreaks and betrayals, while Al’s just a hormonal teen who has daddy issues (my words). 
> 
> Arthur needs a man with emotional capacity (such as Toni) but Alfred’s just a reckless idiot who thinks too highly of himself, and so American that my eyes are bleeding from the extreme American ego (no offense to Americans). But then turn around, and we see dear little SpaMano staring straight at us. Now here’s a mature x immature (or is the other way round?) pairing that actually works. No one can deny that SpaMano is canon, and that the two of them balance each other just right.
> 
> As for the RusAme here, I always thought that RusAme in fact works better than USUK, but this is the first time I’ve actually written RusAme. Or SpUK, for that matter. Ivan here isn’t a jerk, he doesn’t know that Arthur (his beloved mentor) and Alfred (the student that has the hots for the new Russian guy) are together, so he isn’t purposefully, you know, destroying their relationship. I added this side ship here just to show the fact that this Alfred, my Alfred in this fic, is a first-class prick, is a heartbreaker and womanizer, and for all his talks about love, doesn’t give a flying f-word for dearest Arthur. Well, and Arthur’s just too besotted with him.
> 
> My friend’s been hogging me to finish this since... forever. I swear, she’s here just for the nonexistent smut. I swear.


End file.
